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bad fruit.


         My Dear, 


   Ripened and rotted, you’ve lingered      

                                                  long enough. 


I struggle now to pluck the stench from the  

              silk bedding, unwilling to admit


                     that you are just no good. 


It’s strange 


            how our lust defines us, 


                                       influences the abandonment       

                                             of our preservation. 


Like a siren,

              peace abandons me


                   and I’m left haunted by the 

                    admittance of your idle truth. 


You are what my mother warned me of.


                                A devil with his hand stretched out. 

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